


Fight Night

by fredbassett



Series: Stephen/Ryan series [116]
Category: Primeval
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 16:04:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17328152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: Fiver is down on his luck after being slung out of the army, but gets an offer he can’t refuse.





	1. Chapter 1

The smell hit them as soon as they opened the car door.

The warm musk of animal bodies pressed together combined with the stink of their muck. The men wrinkled their noses in disgust, and one of them started to cough.

The farmyard was littered with rusting machinery. Only an ancient Land Rover looked like it was still able to move under its own steam. The farmhouse wasn’t much better. The exterior was as run down as the rest of the place. Pain peeling off the window frames and grey stone crumbling from the walls. The place stank of shit and decay. Opposite the animal pens, a large, newly-built shed the size of an aircraft hangar stood in stark contrast to the mess everywhere else, with breeze-block sides and a grey corrugated roof. It was the only new thing to be seen on the farm.

Terry Speight nodded towards the boot of the car.

Two of the lads hauled out a long shape wrapped in a blue tarpaulin. Without needing to be told, they lugged it over to one of the pens and heaved it over the metal rail, letting the contents tumble out.

The snorting and squealing intensified as the pigs jostled with each other for position. Speight wandered over and looked into the pen. All he could see was a heaving mass of heavy, bristle-haired bodies, pressed up against each other, mouths open to display an array of formidable teeth as they started to chomp on their latest meal.

“Hungry little fuckers,” he remarked approvingly.

“Likes their grub, they do.” The words came from a man leaning against the corner of a barn that adjoined the pen. He was short, round and had even less hair than his pigs. His pink, bald head shone with sweat, and more beaded on his upper lip.

On balance, Speight thought he preferred the pigs. “Must be saving you a fortune in grub.”

The man held his hand out. “None o’ your business ’ow much I feeds ‘em, or ‘ow much it costs, Tel-boy. But best for you if I keeps ‘em ‘hungry, eh?”

Speight slapped a wad of notes secured with an elastic band into the man’s damp palm.

The farmer’s fat shiny face broke into a wide smile displaying small, white teeth. “Nice doin’ business with you.”

Speight wasn’t sure he echoed that sentiment, but he had to admit that as disposal methods went, this was a sure-fire winner. The only drawback was that it had put him off pork for life.

He nodded to the farmer and walked back to the car. The two lads with him were already back inside, windows up and air con running full blast to keep the smell at bay.

Behind him, the pen of Tamworth pigs continued to tear at their latest prize. One of the smaller pigs made a grab for something on the ground and then jostled its way out of the pack, carrying something in its mouth.

A human hand.

*****

“We done for the night, Tel?”

Speight looked at his watch. “Just one call on the way back. Stop off by the arches. Need to check out the latest lead.”

The car bounced down the rutted track that led past the sign that said Pear Tree Farm – Finest Pork and back onto to the main road. Half an hour and they’d be back in town.

The driver flicked the windscreen wipers on. The weather had gone from a warm evening to teeming rain in less than a minute.

Speight grinned. Bring it on. Crap weather was a godsend in his business.

By the time they reached the shelter of the motorway bridge, the wipers were on as fast as they’d go and even with that, visibility was poor. The driver pulled over and ran the car up onto the island in the middle of the big roundabout formed around the huge struts of the bridge.

Speight jumped out and walked up to the grey concrete pillars, lit only by the faint light from the streetlamps on the road. He pulled a torch out of his pocket and played the beam over several piles of filthy rags huddled against the bridge supports.

“Anyone need a bit o’ dosh?” he asked, poking at one of the bundles of dirty, ragged clothes.

A muffled fuck off came from the pile of rags nearest to him.

“Manners,” Speight chided, and aimed a kick from his steel toe-capped boots at the rough sleeper.

A grunt was all the answer he got, but he’d made his point.

He worked the line, repeating his question.

The only answer he got came from the last noxious bundle. “Giss a fiver, mate?”

“Didn’t your mam teach you the magic word?” Speight asked, crouching down beside the man.

In the light of his torch, Speight could see a young black face staring up at him out of a mess of old clothes and what might once have been an army greatcoat. The man was wearing a navy-blue bobble hat pulled down over his forehead. His eyes were bright, and Speight saw a flash of white teeth as the man grinned up at him.

“Giss a fiver, please, mate?”

Speight dug around in his pockets and came up with a tenner. He held it out by his finger and thumb, dangling it in front of the man’s face.

A look of suspicion crossed the man’s face. “I ain’t suckin’ yer dick fer that,” he muttered.

“Ain’t askin’ you to. You’re not my type.”

“Iz it ‘cos I’z black?”

Speight grinned. “No, mate, it’s ‘cos you’re a bloke.” He dropped the tenner into the man’s lap and stood up. “See you around… mate.”

The man’s hand shot out, as fast as a striking snake and the tenner disappeared into the pile of rags.

The rain was already driving under the arch of the bridge and a cold wind was whistling through the meagre shelter. Speight stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat and started to walk back to the car.

As if on a whim, he turned around and said over his shoulder, “If you’re looking for work, meet me at Joe’s Kaff tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock sharp.” Without waiting for a reply, he got back in the car.

“Home, Jim lad, and don’t spare the horses.”

*****

Joe’s Kaff overlooked the motorway bridge, with a burned-out bookie’s on one side and a dingy sex shop on the other.

The café attracted the dregs of the neighbourhood, but was known to serve the best fried breakfast in the area. Provided you like grease, that is. The tea was dark brown and thick enough to stand a spoon up in. And if you asked for a skinny latte you’d be told to fuck off. There were only two choices: tea or coffee. Anything else came under the heading of poncey bollocks. And woe betide anyone daft enough to ask for wholemeal toast.

The woman behind the counter had worked there for longer than Terry Speight could remember. She went by the name of Big Marge, and rumour had it she was Joe’s wife. But no one remembered much about Joe, and Speight’s money was on the fact that he’d never existed.

“Me usual, luv,” he said, pushing a tenner across the bar before settling down at one of the seats at the back of the café. Despite its grungy exterior, the inside was scrupulously clean and the old-fashioned formica table tops looked like they’d been scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. It reminded Speight of his gran’s kitchen. Two minutes later, a mug of strong black tea was plonked down on the table in front of him along with a bacon butty. The bread was white and thick cut, dripping with butter and grease. The bacon had been fried – Joe’s Kaff didn’t possess anything as new-fangled as a grill. Everything was fried and tasted better for it. As long as you didn’t stop to think about the effect on your arteries.

Speight munched his sandwich and idly flicked through a copy of The Sun that had been left behind on the table by the last customer to enjoy the culinary delights Joe’s Kaff had to offer. A glance up at the clock on the wall told him he had two minutes to go before he found out if his latest mark had taken the bait. He finished the butty and swilled it down with the rest of his tea.

Two minutes later, the door swung open, the bell jangling loudly. The young black guy from the night before shuffled in, looking cold, hungry and knackered. His eyes immediately settled on Speight and the back of the café and he walked towards him, an uncertain look in his eyes.

Speight waved a hand to the seat opposite him.

The lad looked over his shoulder before sitting down. It was clear that sitting with his back to the door went against the grain. Speight suppressed a grin. This one was going to be worth the effort, he could feel it in his bones.

He glanced over at Big Marge. “Full English and a mug of tea when you’re ready, Marge.”

She grunted something unintelligible, but a minute later, two mugs of tea were planted unceremoniously on the table. One black, the other white, which told Speight that the lad had been in here before. Big Marge never forgot an order. Speight had seen her ladling in three sugars, as well.

A pair of grubby, dry-skinned hands were promptly cupped around the mug. The lad looked frozen. Hardly surprising after spending a night huddled under a bridge while the rain came down in stair-rods. He gulped the tea down while it was hot, and continued to hold onto the mug. Speight nodded at Marge and another one appeared in the blink of an eye.

Neither of the men spoke. The breakfast arrived a couple of minutes later. Two rashers of middle cut bacon, two sausages, two eggs, two slices of black pudding, a large dollop of baked beans, a large bubble and squeak potato cake (ask for hash browns and be shown the door), a fried tomato and two thick slices of fried bread. The bloke demolished the lot with the same single-minded determination Speight had last seen in a herd of pigs.

After wiping his plate clean with the last of the fried bread, the black lad eyed Speight warily. “You said about work…?”

Speight kept his expression strictly neutral. “So how long have you been out of the army?”

The lad’s expression went from wary to hunted in the blink of an eye. He finished the tea. Clearly debating whether to simply fuck off now.

“Seen lads like you before,” Speight said. “Not hard to make your type. Don’t like sitting with your back to a door. Never stop sizing up what’s goin’ on around you. Eyes that have seen too much, too young. Am I right or am I right?”

His companion took a gulp of tea. “You’re right,” he admitted. “So what’s it to you?”

“My brother was in the army.”

A glimmer of interest in the lad’s dark eyes. “What unit?”

“2nd Battalion Royal Fusilliers.”

“Sangin.”

Speight nodded. The lie well-rehearsed.

“What happened to him?”

“IED. Two days before he was due to fly home.”

The lad grimaced. Genuine sympathy on a face that might have been good-looking if it hadn’t have been a mix of knackered, scared and totally fucked-up.

Speight shrugged. “Shit happens. It was a long time ago. You?”

“Two Para.”

“So how long have you been out?”

“Six months.”

“Had enough of it?”

The look that crossed the lad’s face was wary.

Speight knew his instincts on this one had been good. It was time to reel in his catch. “What did they bin you for?”

“Got pissed and decked a Rupert. Slimy fucker had never even been in theatre.”

Speight grinned. “Bet he deserved it.”

“Too fuckin’ right. Hadn’t done four tours there to take crap from some bastard straight out of Sandhurst.” A swift grin lit up the lad’s face. “Should’ve seen his fuckin’ face. Cunt.”

“Colchester?”

“Two months, then they kicked me out. Been on the streets ever since.”

“Bastards. Fancy another brew?”

The answering nod was eager.

Speight waiting until the lad was halfway down his next drink before asking, “So what’s your name?”

The wary look came straight back and the shutters came down.

Speight plastered a friendly grin on his face. “What did your mates call you?”

He finished the tea before answering, as though afraid it’d get snatched away.

“Fiver.”

Speight frowned. “Gave you a tenner last night, mate.”

The lad grinned, showing once-white teeth that probably hadn’t been brushed for a month. “Lend us a fiver, mate. Fiver, it’s what me mates called me.”

“Nice one. OK, Fiver, what’re you gonna do with that tenner I gave you last night? Blow it on drugs?”

“Don’t do drugs. Fuckin’ mugs’ game.”

“You will after another six months under that fucking bridge. By then you’ll be glad of a few hours out of your head. Trust me, mate, I’ve been there.”

The look he got was sceptical. Speight shrugged off his jacket and pushed his sweater up past his elbow, revealing the track marks on his arm. The look of scepticism dropped away. Speight kept a straight face. It had been worth an afternoon spent jabbing a needle into his arm. The scars did more to convince his targets he knew where they were coming from – or going to – than any words he could use.

“So what happened?” The question came out almost grudgingly.

Speight shrugged. “Somebody offered me an alternative. Same as I’m goin’ to offer you. Want to get yourself off the streets? Get some more food in your belly? Decent clothes that don’t stink of sweat and piss? A proper bed at night?”

“What’s the fuckin’ catch?”

“For a lad like you, there isn’t one. You can hold your own in a fight, I bet. Must be able to if you laid out a Rupert.”

“You need muscle?”

“I need a scrapper.”

A swift grin lit the lad’s face. “Could scrap for England, me.”

Speight stood up pulled his jacket back on.

He’d reeled in his catch and landed it, hook, line and sinker.

“Come on, I’ll tell you the rest in the car.” He held his hand out. “Speight. Terry Speight. Me mates call me Tel.”

The handshake he was given was on the bruising side of firm but stopped short of bone-crunching.

It was a good start.


	2. Chapter 2

The car pulled up outside a three-storey terraced house in a rough area. The paint was peeling off the wooden window frames and a door that once might have been blue. A pot with a dead plant stood to one side of it in a small garden overgrown with weeds. A few kids were hanging around on the pavement a bit further up, drinking cans of super strength lager and eyeing up a teenager pushing a pram. They wolf-whistled at her and she flipped them the bird and came out with a few words that he’d last heard in a military prison. Looked like a great neighbourhood.

Speight jumped out and waved his hand expansively. “Better than sleeping under the arches, mate!”

Fiver followed him up the steps to the front door and into a dingy hall that reeked of fag smoke. The bloke was right, it was better than dossing under a bridge, but Speight still hadn’t told him what he wanted in return for providing food and somewhere for him to crash. He’d asked twice in the car but hadn’t had any answers. The guy was as slippery as a fucking eel.

He looked around at the damp-stained wallpaper and threadbare carpet and wondered exactly what he was getting into.

“Fancy a shower? I’ve got some clobber that’ll fit you.”

“Don’t think I’m ungrateful, mate, but I fancy some answers. You said you needed a scrapper…?”

Speight walked off in the direction of a kitchen at the end of the hall. It was surprisingly clean, with no dishes piled in the sink or on top of the stove. Speight pulled open the fridge door and grabbed two cans of lager. He ripped the tabs off on both and handed one to Fiver.

“OK, I’ll level with you. You can hold your own in a fight, right?”

Fiver nodded.

“There’s money to be made in fights.”

“What sort of fights?”

Speight grinned. “The usual kind, mate. The ones where you kick the shit out of someone and he does the same to you.”

“So it’s a betting scam…”

“There’s no scam. We only use the best, that’s how we make money. And there’s plenty in it for you.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred a fight.”

Fiver laughed. “While you make a couple o’ grand and more? You’ll have to do better than that. I didn’t just come off the latest banana boat. I used to make more than that on fight night when I was Helmand.” He took a long swig of the cold beer and waited to see how far Speight would up the ante. He now knew what the bloke’s game was.

Speight sized him up with a slow appraising glance from head to toe.

Fiver knew he looked a fucking mess. He’d been sleeping in his clothes for a month and must stink like a ferret’s crotch. He’d been living off scraps and the occasional handout from passers-by when he’d been in a doorway on what passed for the shopping street. The place consisted of nothing more than ratty charity shops, fast food joints and nail bars. He’d never known so many fucking nail bars even existed. That was happened when you got slung out of the army. No one wanted to know you. The social said fuck off, it’s your own fault. Your so-called mates disappeared as fast as a fart, especially once you’d run out of dosh. The hostels were full to bursting, so it was shop doorways and under bridges, and too many prawn sarnies. Fuck knows why you always got given prawn.

“You’ve twisted my arm. Five hundred.”

Fiver gulped the rest of the beer down and took his time answering. “So how many times do I have to get the crap kicked out of me before you take the big bets? I’ll take a few beatings for that, but I want a better share of the real money.” He plonked the can down noisily on the kitchen counter and grinned at Speight.

The laugh he got in return seemed genuine, but the amusement didn’t reach Speight’s eyes. “No flies on you, mate. It usually takes three, but depends on how well you perform.”

“So then what? Four fights and I’m back on the streets?”

“With a load of dosh in your pocket.”

“And short of several teeth.”

“If you’re good enough, we keep you on and move area. If you’re not, then you’re still better off than you are now. For the big one you’ll get a cut of the take. But don’t get too fucking greedy too soon. I’m taking a punt on you, Fiver lad. For all I know, you fight like a fucking fairy.”

Fiver grinned. “I’m good enough. I’m just not very good at taking stick from wankers.”

“Then we’ll do just fine, laddie. Now come on, I’ll show you where you can get showered and changed. You don’t ‘alf niff.”

Without waiting to be invited, Fiver helped himself to another beer and then followed Speight up a flight of steep, narrow stairs a room at the back of the house on the first floor. The bloke was right, it was better than dossing under a bridge or in a shop doorway getting pissed on in the middle of the night by a drunk. There was a single bed with a flat-looking duvet inside a chocolate brown cover that had seen better days, but at least it looked clean. A chipboard chest of drawers stood against one wall a narrow door in the corner that led into a tiny built-in bathroom housed in some sort of plastic unit. He’d seen this sort of thing before in B&Bs. It was going to be a tight fit for him.

Speight pulled out a couple of drawers and waved his hand at the contents. “This lot should fit you. I’ll stick the rest of your stuff in the trash. Doesn’t look like there’s anything worth saving.”

Fiver knew perfectly well what was going on, but there was no reason not to play the game. He toed off his trainers and started to strip off layer after stinking layer. “You want to see if it’s true about big black cocks?” He shoved his trousers and filthy underpants down in one quick movement and stepped out of them stark bollock naked. Five years in the army and he’d lost any modesty he’d ever had. He knew he was too thin, but his muscles hadn’t totally lost it.

Speight sized him up like a trainer looking over a racehorse. “Big lad.”

“Thought I wasn’t your type?”

“You’re not. But if you want a girl, just say. I can get one over for you. On the house, like.”

“Sounds good. I’ll let you know.” He turned around, slowly and deliberately, and stepped into the miniature ensuite.

“Nice arse, too,” Speight commented, laughing, as he gathered up the bundle of rank clothes. “I’ll get shut of these. See you in a bit.”

Fiver turned on the water and stepped into the tiny shower, knowing that Speight would be back almost immediately to have a rummage through his small kit bag. The guy looked the sort to be thorough.

The lukewarm water hit his skin and for a moment, Fiver couldn’t remember when anything had last felt that good. A large container of citrus shampoo and shower gel was fixed to the wall and he was finally able to start getting the stink of the streets of himself. He’d half-thought Speight might have had a different proposition in mind, despite his claim to be straight. It wouldn’t have been the first time, but there were some fucking lines he had no intention of crossing.

He dropped a hand down to his cock, soaping it thoroughly, then sliding his hand around to his arsecrack and doing the same. When he’d got as clean as possible, Fiver started again, but this time he let his fingers linger on his cock and balls. He hadn’t had a wank since he’d come out of the slammer. Kipping rough wasn’t exactly conducive to sticking your hand down your pants. But now was different. He might as well give Tel boy the chance to have a good look through his stuff. There was nothing to find. His mobile phone had been nicked a month back, and there was nothing in his bag of any value except the tenner he’d scrounged the previous night and if Speight nicked that back he’d get a fucking slap.

His cock was starting to sit up and take notice. Fiver ran his hand over the soap-slick head, enjoying the warm sensation that travelled down to his balls. He’d been wound tight as a fucking guitar string for too long. You couldn’t afford to let your guard down on the streets. With no mates to watch your back you were easy prey out there. And being black didn’t help, not deep in fucking UKIP territory. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d been spat at and told to fuck off back to wherever it was he’d come from. Opinion varied on that score and when he’d told one bunch of racist skinheads with necks as thick as his thighs that he’s been born in Burnley, it hadn’t gone down well.

With a few quick tugs he was rock hard. He knew it wasn’t going to take long and he didn’t care. There’d be time for a slow one later. For now he just wanted that white hot spike of pleasure that was better than any drugs hit. He’d tried the powdered stuff as a kid and knew it was a fucking mug’s game. Besides, owt he’d tried had mainly just made him chuck his guts up and there wasn’t much fun in that…

His hand slid up and down his shaft, fingers maybe just a shade too tight, but he wanted this so fucking much. Another dollop of gel and he was flying, as high as a kite on the feeling of release as his dick jumped in his hand and ropes of come splashed on the sand-coloured plastic of the shower cubicle.

He leaned against the wall, letting the water stream over his head and shoulders, hitting his sensitive cock and sending fresh tremors down his legs. Fuck that had been good.

Turning the water off, he reached out and grabbed a large, thin towel and proceeded to rub himself dry. A packet of disposable razors on the tiny sink quickly dealt with the beard he’d grown, but there wasn’t much he could do about his shaggy, matted hair. No shortage of hairdressers around, though. He’d ask Speight for an advance on his fight money.

He stepped out of the cubicle, the towel in his hand rather than his waist, and wasn’t surprised to find Speight back in the room. The man had put his pack back exactly where he’d found it, but Fiver wasn’t fooled.

“Brought you a bigger pair of trainers.”

“Ta. So when’s the first fight?” Ignoring his own nakedness, Fiver padded over to the chest of drawers and pulled out a dark blue pair of boxers and a pair of jeans. The fit wasn’t bad. He wondered how long Speight had been nosing around after him to have managed to guess his size reasonably accurately.

“Next couple of days. It’ll be an easy one. The guy you’ll be up against is a pro, knows how to pull his punches but still make it look good for the punters.”

Fiver laughed. “You’d better not be shitting me.”

Speight’s eyes hardened. “You’d better learn to trust me, laddie. Either that or you’ll be back under that fucking bridge.” He pulled a small roll of money out of his pocket and tossed it on the bed. “There’s a bullseye there. There’s a barber at the end of the road, get yer fucking hair cut.”

Fiver grinned. Life was definitely looking up.


	3. Chapter 3

“Ready for off?” Speight asked.

Fiver shrugged. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Speight slapped him on the shoulder. “Good lad. The van’s outside.”

The van turned out to be a once-white transit that had definitely seen better days. Someone had scrawled Clean Me! in the muck on the rear doors and a wannabe artist had drawn a large cock and balls on one side. He grinned. It reminded him of the sort of thing he’d done as a kid, before the army had taken him in and straightened him out. Mind you, it wasn’t that long ago he’d drawn something similar on the Rupert’s Beemer. The same Rupert he’d decked. Bastard had been picking on a couple of the younger lads who’d just failed to make it through Selection. They’d only failed by a whisker, and both had been told to give it six months and try again. But the latest twat who’d been dropped on them by the Head Shed didn’t see it like that…

He shook off the thoughts and climbed into the back of the van. The inside was completely windowless, and even the ones at the rear had been painted over. There were a couple of seats fitted with seat belts, but that was the only luxury. Speight clearly didn’t want him to know where the action was going down. Tel boy talked a good game about trust, but that was all it was. Talk. The bloke acted like he’d caught himself a right fucking munter. Fiver snorted and fastened the seat belt. Provided Speight came good with the dosh he’d promised, things would turn out fine, even if he did have to take a couple of kickings in the early days, but that would soon change.

Out of habit, Fiver did his best to follow the van’s progress in his head, but after ten minutes, he knew Speight was wise to that game. They looped back on themselves umpteen times before Fiver gave up and stretched out in his seat, eyes closed. Might as well get some kip.

The van eventually came to a halt after bouncing for ten minutes down a rutted track.

When Speight threw open the doors, Fiver climbed out, blinking in the watery evening sunlight. A quick glance around told him he was in a farmyard. There were two large sheds. One had a pair of huge doors thrown open and inside he could see a few parked cars. Two Beemers, a Merc and what looked like a Ferrari. Someone had expensive tastes. He sniffed the air, seeing what clues he could pick up. Apart from the warm smell of the van’s engine and exhaust, there wasn’t much to go on. No smell – or sound – of animals and none of the muck he normally associated with them either.

The yard was surprisingly clean, and all he would see was a large pile of plastic-wrapped bales stacked against the wall of the building containing the cars. Poking out from behind the bales was something that looked like a bloody great big combine harvester. So, arable rather than animal. Somewhere in East Anglia, maybe Essex. By his reckoning, they’d been driving for nearly two hours, but he wasn’t sure how much of that had been Speight going around in fucking circles.

Trust? The bloke could take his fucking trust and stuff it where the sun didn’t shine.

Speight clapped him on the back. “Come on, mate, let’s get you ready.”

Getting ready consisted of stripping to the waist in a small room at the back of one of the huge sheds. He could hear the hum of voices in the man part of the building, and while he’d been alone with Speight, he’d heard cars arriving in the yard and being directed into the other building.

“Your bloke knows his brief?” he said, giving Speight a hard stare.

“He knows his stuff. Stop worrying, mate, it’ll all be fine. Just put up a good show for about five minutes then go down and stay down. Easiest monkey you’ll ever make. You’re just the warm-up act tonight. Get the punters in the right mood. You’re on in ten.”

The next ten minutes crawled by. Fiver could here shouts and laughter coming from the main part of the shed. Hard to pick out anything in specific, but the accents appeared to be mainly London and Essex, so he didn’t think his guess about the location had been too far adrift. There were even a few women’s voices. He spent the time doing stretching exercises and jogging on the spot to warm up his muscles. If he was going to take a beating, he needed to be relaxed, not tense. He’d thrown fights before, that was no big deal, but making it look convincing was a bit of an art, and he was going to be totally dependent on how good the other guy was at this sort of crap.

“You’re on!” Speight ushered him down a short corridor and out into the main shed.

Bright lights mounted up in the rafters almost blinded him as he walked out onto a large wooden stage, raised a couple of feet above ground level. It was hard to see past the lights, but the warehouse-sized shed looked to be packed with people. Some sitting, others standing. He heard the pop of a cork leaving a bottle at speed and high-pitched laughter, already verging on the pissed and giggly.

Forget the audience. He was more interested in the opposition.

The bloke was a couple of inches shorter than him but built like a brick shithouse. Tattoos covered every inch of his exposed torso, meaning Fiver had to look twice before he even realised the bloke was white under that mass of ink. His head was shaved and glistened with sweat under the bright lights.

The bloke grinned widely at him, displaying a mass of uneven teeth, with several missing. He thumped his arm on his chest on a gladiatorial-style salute.

Speight hadn’t briefed him on how to behave on the stage, so Fiver played it safe and returned the salute.

The crowd roared with laughter. Fiver wondered if he was meant to be there as some sort of comedy turn, but there was nothing funny about the way the bloke came at him, hard and fast, swinging a bare-knuckled punch that would have taken out a couple of teeth if the blow has connected with his face. He dodged and came back with a jab to the guy’s gut. It was early in the game so he pulled the punch enough that it just hurt, not disabled. The tattooed guy reeled away, coughing, but lashed out with a foot strike that caught Fiver on the hip.

Moments later they were at each other like two dogs scrapping in a yard. Some of the moves they remembered to tone down. Others slipped the net and fucking hurt. A few minutes in and Fiver was bleeding from a scrape across his abs and the other bloke had a split lip. The crowd were loving the blood, yelling every time one of them took a thump or a kick. He didn’t have a clue whether he had any supporters out there. The noise was indiscriminate and the glare of the lights stopped him seeing much beyond the wooden platform. He could smell booze in the air and had heard corks popping several times. One had gone off so close it had sounded like the noise of a silenced pistol. He’d reached automatically for a weapon he wasn’t carrying and the momentary distraction had earned him a glancing kick to his balls that had only narrowly avoided doing some serious damage. Playing up to the crowd, he yelled loudly and reeled away.

The tattooed guy was on him in an instant, knocking him to the floor. As they dropped onto the hard, wood, the bloke hissed in his ear, “Stay down. Time to finish.” The words were low and urgent.

Fiver fought his natural instinct to use all the tricks he’d ever been taught to flip the guy and get the upper hand. Instead, he felt his head being banged on the boards. The adrenaline flooding his system kept the pain at bay, which was fortunate. A fist to the solar plexus left him gasping for breath and then the bloke was on his feet and kicking. Fiver rolled into a ball to protect his kidneys, but not before a kick caught him squarely in the guts. His opponent made it look good, but there was no force behind it. Speight had been right, the bloke was a pro. Fiver just hoped his own performance was as convincing.

He stayed down like he’d been told, rolling away but not trying to get to his feet. A smack to his face had brought the blood flowing from his nose, and between them they’d smeared it around. A little bit of blood went a long way, and they milked it for all it was worth.

He took half a dozen more kicks, all pulled enough to do no more than bruise. When the last one glanced across his temple, Fiver decided it was time to play possum and forced himself to go limp.

Lying there totally vulnerable wasn’t exactly his idea of fun, but moments later, there was a roar of appreciation from the crowd and the pop of some more corks.

Fiver felt a pair of strong hands wrap around his ankles and then he was being dragged backwards off the platform with the jeers and cheers of the spectators ringing in his ears.

As soon as he heard a door slam, Fiver opened his eyes.

A gap-toothed grin greeted him and a meaty, tattooed hand gripped his wrist and hauled him to his feet.

“Good work, boys!” Speight, standing by the door, sounded genuinely pleased.

Fiver coughed and spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. One of the last kicks had driven the inside of his cheek into his teeth. His cheek had come off worst.

His former opponent clapped him on the back. “Sorry about that. Name’s Gazza.”

“Fiver.”

Speight handed them each a bottle of cold water. Fiver drained his in three long swallows.

On the other side of the internal wall, he heard another roar from the crowd. It sounded like the next bout had started.

“Get yourself cleaned up, lads. Gazza will show you the showers and where you can hang around until we’re done.”

Fiver followed Gazza out of the barn to a low, brick building on the other side of the yard. It looked like the sort of toilet and shower block you got on upmarket campsites. The inside was spotlessly clean. A tracksuit, towels and toiletries were waiting for them.

“All mod cons,” Gazza said, grinning widely again. He promptly stripped off, proving that the rest of his body was as tattooed as his torso. The only part of him that wasn’t covered in ink appeared to be his cock. He caught the direction of Fiver’s gaze and laughed. “Gotta draw the line somewhere, mate. Not letting any bloke near my cock.”

“Knew a girl once who did tats.”

“No way!” Gazza sounded impressed as he stepped into one of the shower stalls and turned on the water.

Fiver followed suit. The water was hot and stung the abrasions on his chest and a few other scrapes. He stayed under until the water in the shower tray ran clean, then stepped out and towelled himself dry. By the time he finished, Gazza was already dressed and had acquired a couple of cold beers from somewhere. He handed one to Fiver along with two white tablets.

Fiver took the beer but shook his head at the tablets. “No offence, mate but I don’t pop pills unless I’ve taken ‘em out of the foil myself.”

“Terry said you were a trusting soul.” Gazza popped the pills into his mouth and chased them down with a long swig of beer. “Paracetemol.”

“As I said, no offence intended. So how long have you been in this game?”

“Six months, give or take.”

“And before that?”

“In the nick. Four years. Aggravated assault.” Gazza’s stare was truculent, and Fiver knew he shouldn’t have asked.

“Sorry, my bad.”

Gazza’s expression mellowed. “You?”

“Army. Twatted an officer.”

Gazza burst out laughing. “Nice one. Come on, get some clothes on. Tel’s got a fucking stellar porn stash and we’ve got a few hours to kill.”

It looked to Fiver like he’d passed another test.


	4. Chapter 4

In his first fortnight on the job, boredom was Fiver’s main problem.

There was only so much porn you could watch without getting bored silly, and he’d never been one for shoot ‘em up games. Not when he’d played them for real. He did a couple of hours here and there, just to keep his reactions up to speed, but beyond that, he mainly worked out in his room or used the treadmill he’d persuaded Speight to bring into the lodging house. He’d wanted a punchbag, but there was nowhere to fix it. Not without bringing a ceiling down. His request to visit a local gym hadn’t been met with much enthusiasm. Speight liked to know where his assets were, and that meant being confined to barracks most of the time. The couple of times Fiver had been outside by himself, it hadn’t been hard to spot the tails and he could have left them behind any time he’d wanted, but there didn’t seem much point in causing trouble.

He had a job to do, he wasn’t kipping in doorways or under bridges, and the money was mounting up.

He’d fought four bouts. Lost two, won two. The whole lot had been staged, and Fiver knew that he was nothing but the warm up act. It was what happened in the next stage that interested him. Gazza and the other lads he’d talked to had been cagey about what else went on, but there was clearly more to the racket than a few fairly tame kickabouts. The Champagne Charlies he’d seen in the audience would want more for their money than a few split lips, black eyes and faked kicks to the nadgers. Actually, not all of them had been faked, not everyone was as good at pulling the punches as his mate Gazza.

One of the guys he’d been up against a couple of times – a ferrety little fucker with bleached blond hair – seemed to enjoy getting a few sneaky kicks in. Sure, he apologised later, but that cut no ice with Fiver. Next time up, he’d give the little git a taste of his own medicine.

Speight had hinted a couple of times that Fiver was wasted on the warm-up stuff and seemed to be angling to find out how far he was willing to go. He’d just laughed and told Speight to bring it on.

The venues had been different every time, presumably to stop the Feds getting a handle on what was going on, but each of the set-ups had looked pretty professional, with staging in place every time, but that sort of stuff wasn’t hard to put up and take down. Fiver had moonlighted a couple of times doing security at Glastonbury, so he knew how fast it could all be put together. Not all the places had showers and stuff, and on a couple of occasions, he’d been sent out to wait in the back of the van with a couple of the other lads, still sweating like pigs and stinking the place out.

He was still no nearer knowing where the bouts were being held, but his best guess was Essex and Suffolk. He didn’t know the area well, but the uniform flatness was a bit of a fucking giveaway.

By the fourth week, he was itching for some more action. He’d flattened Ferret-face on his last outing, much to Gazza’s amusement, and Speight hadn’t seemed too fussed, so when they got to their destination on Friday night, he wasn’t surprised to be told he wasn’t on warm-up duty any more.

“So what gives?” Fiver asked.

“You go out there and you win.”

“Just like that?”

Speight shrugged. “Yeah, just like that. You’re not up against our lads now, so get stuck in. Reckon you can do it?”

“I can do it.”

The farmyard they were in stank of pigs, and Fiver could hear them rootling around in a big barn to one side of the yard. Some screens had been put up and he was told to do his warm ups out of sight. He couldn’t see the punters arriving, but he could hear the cars pulling in and parking. The warm-up acts lasted about half an hour, then Fiver arrived to take him in through a door at the rear of the barn.

As ever, the lights were dazzling after the darkness of the yard, but Fiver’s eyes adjusted in the time it took a bloke in a suit to come out with the usual crap, bigging up each of the fighters, while Fiver and the other bloke took the opportunity to size each other up.

His opponent in his first real bout was a mixed-race lad who looked to be in his middle 30s. His nose had been broken several times and reset badly at least once. His hair was close-cropped and he seemed to have more hair on his chest and his arms than he did on his head. He had a couple of inches on Fiver and a longer reach, but they probably weighed about the same.

Fiver stayed out of reach as they circled each other like wary dogs. In the warm-up bouts it had been all about the theatre, but this was for real, and he had no intention of taking a beating.

From the stance the guy adopted, Fiver was expecting him to lead with his fists, but instead he was on the receiving end of a vicious foot strike. He saw it coming at the last minute and side-stepped, taking no more than a glancing kick on his side. He grabbed the bloke’s ankle and yanked him off balance. That was the problem with fancy moves. If they went wrong, you looked a right twat.

The crowd roared its approval.

Fiver slammed his foot into his opponent’s exposed guts. No pulling the punch this time.

Vomit spewed out of the man’s mouth.

He got another couple of kicks in for good measure, then stepped back to let the bloke stagger to his feet.

As soon as he was upright, Fiver laid him out with a textbook left to the jaw. He heard a nasty pop and knew it had dislocated. That was going to need a trip to A&E.

The crowd went crazy.

The bloke scrabbled to his feet, eyes glazed with pain, and a bulge on the side of his face that shouldn’t have been there, but he was a tough bastard and came back at Fiver hard, fists flying. The movements were wild and easily avoided, but the crowd were impressed by the naked ferocity and were roaring their approval. Fiver knew he could take the bloke, but there was no harm in going for a bit of theatre.

He threw up his left arm and blocked a hard strike, then followed up the block with a straight-armed jab to the kidneys that would have his opponent pissing blood for a week. It earned him a roar of pain. The crowd went fucking crazy. Fiver stepped in close and hammered in a few more body blows. The guy tried hard to disengage and regroup, but Fiver stayed with him, hammering his fists home with every swing of his arms.

The hardest thing about this stage of the fight was avoiding the mess of puke and blood on the floor. He had the upper hand, but ending up flat on the floor on his arse wouldn’t look good in front of the punters. He’d been told to win this one, and that was exactly what he intended to do.

His opponent had lost all coordination now, pain from the dislocated jaw and the hammering dished out by Fiver’s fists overwhelming any sense of strategy or tactics. All he could do was flail and hope to get in a lucky strike. There was sod all finesse left. The crowd were roaring approval. They were getting what they’d paid good money for, the sick fucks. Clamping down hard on his feeling of disgust, Fiver slammed his fist up under the man’s chin. His jaw broke with a sickening crack and he went down like a sack of coal.

Fiver took a step backwards, facing the crowd, his arms lifted in victory.

The crowd were on their feet, yelling.

Something fluttered onto the stage. A fifty quid note. More followed.

Two men came onto the stage and dragged the other bloke off by his feet. Fiver heard the thump of his opponent’s head on the wooden steps as he was hauled off the platform.

Speight jumped up on the stage, grabbing one of Fiver’s hands and lifting it in the air again.

“Don’t worry about the dosh,” he muttered, just loud enough to be heard. “It’ll get picked up. Nice fight. Now give ‘em a bow, we’re outta here.”

Fiver did as he’d been ordered, then followed Speight off the stage. A lanky lad no older than about 16, with the worst acne Fiver had ever seen, handed him a bottle of iced water and a towel. Outside in the yard, Fiver leaned against the wall of the enormous corrugated iron building, glad of the cool air. He was sweating like a pig from the lights rather than any exertion. The bloke hadn’t been good enough to have worked up a sweat on. He looked around the yard, wondering where his former opponent had been dragged off to. The bloke was going to need patching up by a proper doctor. Fiver presumed the fight ring had someone on string for that, although he hadn’t seen any evidence of a bent quack, and he’d not needed anything more than a few painkillers and some butterfly strips, so couldn’t speak for the medical arrangements, if any existed.

On the other side of the yard he could hear the snuffles and squeals of the pigs in the pen. Something had got them worked up – probably the stench of blood and sweat in the air.

Speight clapped him on the shoulder. “They liked you.” He shoved a wad of notes into Fiver’s pocket. “Call it a bonus.”

“Take your cut, did you?”

“This is just beer money, mate. Stick with this and you’ll make far more than a few quid on the side, trust me.”

“Yeah, like you keep saying. Are we done, or am I up again tonight?”

“We’re done. Gotta let someone else get a look in, but you’re a hard act to follow, Fiver lad. Leave ‘em wanting more and they’ll be even keener to see you perform next time.”

Fiver shrugged. “Suits me. Now how about that beer you mentioned?”

*****

Three weeks, three more fights.

He won each bout, although the last one had been more by luck than judgement. He’d been up against a 6’4” bodybuilder with the fancy footwork of a boxer, the hands of a karate expert and a better line in insults than his last drill sergeant. The bloke was also a sadistic fucker who liked playing with his food. And Fiver was the food.

A slight slip on a patch of blood handed Fiver the only advantage in what was fast becoming an unequal struggle. As his opponent had faltered for a crucial moment, Fiver lashed out with a hard strike straight to the bloke’s throat and followed it up with a kick to the groin with all his force and weight behind it.

The rest of the fight was dirty, brutal and, fortunately, short. Man Mountain finally went down to a succession of dirty tricks garnered from some of the army’s least salubrious battlegrounds. When his opponent stayed down, courtesy of another throat strike that left him writhing and gasping, there was a sudden silence in the arena before it erupted in a heady mixture of cheers and cat-calls and – unless he was much mistaken – at least one pistol shot.

He watched as his opponent was hauled from the stage and then, after the obligatory stage walkabout, he took a final bow and walked off.

One look at Speight’s face told him he hadn’t been intended to win that bout. The bloke looked like a bulldog sucking a piss-soaked nettle. He chucked Fiver a damp towel, muttered ‘well done’ and walked off, leaving Fiver alone in the dingy portacabin behind the barn arena. Speight had recovered some of his usual false bonhomie by the time they’d got back to Fiver’s lodgings but it was obviously an effort.

Fiver knew bloody well that his days were numbered. There would be no move to a new area. That had been nothing but bullshit. Speight had raked in the winnings when the odds had been against Fiver originally, then again when they’d been in his favour, but the smart money had been on his opponent in the last bout. But the results didn’t always follow the money, as Speight had just discovered.

“The next round’s tomorrow night,” Speight said as Fiver chucked his kit back into his room and headed for a cold beer from the kitchen.

“You’ve got to be fucking joking.” Fiver ripped the tab from the can and practically inhaled the alcohol.

“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?” There was a hard edge to Speight’s voice that he normally took more trouble to conceal.

Fiver toyed with telling him he looked like a man who’d just lost a shedload of dosh, but decided against it. “Why so soon?”

“There’s a bunch of city high-rollers who’ll pay good money to see you in action again. They watched tonight on a vid-link. Tomorrow they want to see the real thing. Smell the blood, the sweat and the shit. These are blokes that’ll happily blow 5K on a bottle of bubbly. They pay, you fight, that’s the deal. Got it?”

Fiver drained the rest of the beer and chucked the can at the bin in the corner. “What’s my cut?”

“Two grand, plus any take from the stage.”

“And your punters pay 5K for a bottle of fizzy plonk? Come on, mate, you can do better than that. By my reckoning, you’ve made nigh on 50k from me. Not a bad return on the tenner you gave me under the bridge.” It was almost certainly nearer 100k, but he knew playing dumb was never a bad thing.

“And you’ve made 10k. Not bad for a bridge bum.”

10k that would go straight back into Speight’s pocket when it was Fiver’s turn to be dragged by his feet off a manky stage. But if he did a runner now, he wouldn’t see any return for his efforts either.

“I want to see what I’m owed before I go in the ring again.”

Speight have him a hard look. “Not very trusting, Fiver boy. I thought we were mates.”

Fiver shrugged. “It’s dosh, innit, mate. No good to me in a bank or wherever you’ve got it stowed.”

Speight flashed him a rare thing – a genuine smile. “If you must know, it’s currently getting a damn good wash and a rinse at the bookie’s at the end of the road.

“As long as it’s dry by tomorrow, we’ll be grand.”

“Chill, mate, you’ll get what you’re owed. One more fight and you can take a break, OK? Then we’ll shift areas. There’s a good scene going up in Manchester. You’ll go down a treat up there.”

Fiver pulled a bottle of cheap whisky from one of the cupboards and poured two large shots into a couple of grimy glasses. He raised it in salute. “One more fight.”

Speight clinked the glasses together and downed his quickly. “One more fight,” he echoed, but the smile on his face fell a very long way short of his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Fiver jumped out of the back of the van and sniffed the air.

Pigs.

They were back at the grotty farm where he’d taken down the mixed-race lad.

There was another smell on the air this time: the sharp tang of anticipation. Fiver could hear the buzz of talk and laughter from the huge corrugated iron building that housed the staging for the fight. There were plenty of people prepared to pay through the nose to see a couple of blokes kick shit out of each other, and plenty – like Speight – who didn’t give a flying fuck what happened to those blokes.

Fiver was no fool. He knew there was no doctor waiting in the wings to patch up the losers.

He glanced over at the pig pens and felt a shiver run down his spine. If he was the one dragged out by his feet tonight, he knew fucking well where he’d end up. And there’d be nothing left to show that he’d ever fucking existed. Speight would pocket the kit bag full of cash and go looking for another mug. There was no shortage of ex-army lads on the streets who fancied themselves as the next Mike Tyson. And while the army continued to take ‘em in, train ‘em up and spit ‘em out there’d be no shortage of cannon fodder for fight rings.

“Last one,” Speight said, clapping Fiver on the shoulder. “I’ve laid on a girl for you tonight. Knockers like a pair of ripe melons.”

“Cheers, mate.” Fiver rubbed a hand over his stomach. “Reckon I need a dump.”

Speight curled his lips. “Big night nerves?”

“Last night’s manky kebab.”

Fiver headed off into the darkness behind one of the old trailers in the farmyard. The pigs carried on squeaking and grunting as he dropped his trousers and squatted.

*****

“You’re on in ten,” Speight said, with a radio handset held to his ear.

Fiver hadn’t been out of Speight’s sight since coming back out from behind the trailer. Something to do with the duffel bag stuffed full of 20 quid notes that was in the back of the van. Fiver had insisted on seeing the dosh before he’d agreed to the fight and since then, Speight had stuck to him like glue, even hanging around in the dingy bedroom back at the house while Fiver had showered. He was making fucking sure Fiver didn’t set up any sort of hasty get-out before the big fight.

Two warm-up acts had been scheduled before he was on. The first had finished quickly. The second was still in progress. The whoops and jeers from the crowd were already echoing around the yard. A whole new cycle was already in progress, with new blokes starting out, thinking they were going to make a fast buck. He wondered what had happened to the amiable Gazza. He’d not seen him for a couple of weeks. According to Speight, he’d taken his winnings and gone off to see his sister in Scotland. Fiver hoped it was true. He’d liked the bloke. The others he’d been up against hadn’t bothered to be friendly and, to be fair, he wouldn’t have pissed on most of them if they’d been on fire.

He leaned against the side of the van, trying to empty his mind. He needed to focus for what was coming next. He couldn’t afford to go into the next round anything less than fully mentally and physically prepared. After some deep, slow breathing, he started to go through a series of stretches to loosen his muscles while Speight watched him, an amused grin on his face.

Fiver heard a bleep from the radio and Speight moved away to talk to whoever was on the other end.

Two minutes later, a large truck rumbled into the farmyard.

Speight jerked a thumb at the end of the building the fighters used to go onto the stage. “Door on the left’s yours, mate. Don’t fucking let me down, OK? There’s a lot of dosh riding on this, so no nasty surprises.”

As motivational speeches went, that one sucked.

Fiver ignored him and made his way to the relevant door. The area inside had been changed since his last visit. Some partitioning had been erected, making the waiting area smaller. He presumed whoever he was up against was going to be brought in from the truck through the other door, so neither of the fighters could see each other before they stepped out onto the stage together.

A sudden eruption of noise told him the second bout was over, but the fighters didn’t come out to the area where he was waiting.

Keeping his breathing even and his mind empty of anticipation, Fiver continued with the stretches, counting down from five hundred in his head to give him something to focus on. He’d reached 294 in his head when the door to the arena opened and a bloke he didn’t recognise came out.

“You’re on.”

Fiver nodded. The yells from the crowd were loud in his ears and he could immediately see the bright lights focussed on the stage that would stop him picking out any faces in the crowd. He walked quickly through the door and heard it slam behind him. The rasp of the bolts on the other side of the door being slammed into place came as no surprise. Neither of them was going to be given the chance to cut and run.

Fiver’s pupils dilated against the sudden onslaught of bright light. In the same instant, his pulse jumped. The stage was twice the size it had been on his last visit and it was wholly surrounded by an enormous cage with heavy mesh two metres above his head. The fuckers really weren’t taking any chances this time.

The crowd started screaming and yelling, champagne corks popping like erratic gunfire.

Fiver was alone on the stage. He kept his limbs loose and backed up towards the door he’d just come through.

The second door opened and another barrage of corks popped.

A man, stripped to the waist, came out, blinking in the light. Fiver would have recognised those tattoos anywhere. Gazza. Not in Scotland with his sister, but looking as puzzled as Fiver felt. Gazza was good, but no more than that. Fiver could take him easily if he wanted to, but this crowd weren’t going to be satisfied with a bit of a staged knockout. They were baying for blood.

Gazza, like Fiver, looked like he’d been through the mill recently. The bright lights illuminated a mass of dark bruises that showed through even the mass of ink on the man’s torso. He’d taken a right kicking. A long, jagged cut on his bald head, pulled together with steri-strips, had leaked blood. His eyes were round with shock.

“Fiver? That you, mate?” He sounded hesitant, unlike the confident, cheerful Gazza he’d last met. “What the fuck’s goin’ on?”

“We’re in fuckin’ trouble, that’s what’s goin’ on.”

The crowd were jeering wildly now, scenting the fighters’ confusion, and baying for more blood.

The door Gazza had just come through opened again.

Fiver jumped forward, grabbed Gazza by the arm and dragged him across the stage. Gazza moved to block him, but his counter was too slow and, up close, Fiver saw the slightly unfocussed look in his eyes. He was concussed, but the fuckers had still sent him out to fight.

A loud squawk ricocheted around the huge barn, sounding like a gigantic parrot had just had all its tail feathers pulled out.

“Fuck.” Fiver shoved the confused, injured Gazza behind him.

A large, brightly-coloured creature stalked onto the stage. It looked like someone had taken the world’s biggest ostrich, pumped it full of steroids and sent it on a body-building course, as well as dressing it in gaudy plumage that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Brixton carnival. A thick ruff of iridescent blue feathers surrounded a neck thicker than both of Fiver’s thighs together. A sharp, curved yellow beak dominated a heavy head set with two small round black eyes that glimmered with malevolent intelligence. Its heavy body balanced on two strong, feathered legs, each of which ended in long, taloned claws, one of which was curved like a scimitar and would disembowel at a single stroke.

Fiver was dimly conscious of Gazza’s sharp intake of breath but then the crowd around them went wild, erupting into a cacophony of yells, equal part approving and awed.

The bird-thing stared around the cage, enraged rather than cowed by the noise, and screeched back at the audience, a long pink tongue protruding from the sharp beak.

“What the fuck’s that?” Gazza’s voice was shrill with shock.

“Deadly,” Fiver said, not taking his eyes off the creature. “Keep away from its feet. Those claws’ll have your guts out and on the floor like your gran’s fuckin’ knitting.”

Gazza dragged in a deep breath and stepped up to Fiver’s side. “I’ve heard the fuckin’ rumours but didn’t believe ‘em. Cunts, the fuckin’ lot of ‘em. Bet they’ve already trousered the dosh.” He was sounding quite lucid for a beat-up bloke with concussion facing a fucking feathered nightmare. Fiver just hoped Gazza still had some physical fight left in him.

He was going to need it.


	6. Chapter 6

The brightly-plumaged bird-thing was staring at them like a cat focussed on a mouse, just about to pounce.

“Work your way around the edge of the cage,” Fiver instructed. His voice low and urgent. “I’ll distract it. See if you can kick the door in.”

“The bloke on the other side’s got a gun.”

“Good. He’ll need it if we can get that fuck-faced thing back through it.” Fiver took a step forward, his arms outstretched. “Oi, you! Big Bird!”

The creature turned to him and titled its head to one side.

The noise from the crowd died down to an anticipatory hush. There was a sharp tang of sweat on the air and something else… a musky smell, like an animal on heat.

Fiver flapped his arms again.

The bird struck out with its beak, neck extended.

Fiver jumped sideways, making no attempt to engage. He was seriously outclassed and he knew it.

The bird jumped at him, faster than any fucking thing had any right to be able to move. He swayed sideways fast, but not fast enough. The yellow beak laid his forearm open to the bone. Red-hot pain lanced through his body, forging a pathway to his brain through every nerve ending on the way. The adrenaline surge took over, nature’s own anaesthetic, blanketing the pain, letting him shuffle crab-wise around the edge of the cage, his back to the bars of the cage, preventing him being outflanked.

The sound of Gazza’s boot striking the door reverberated around the cage.

The bird swung around, attracted by the noise.

Fiver powered forward at a run, kicking out at where he thought the creature’s knee would be. He hit taut skin and sinew and for a fraction of a second, the bird wobbled, but then it pivoted nimbly and lashed out with its beak, following that up with a leap from a standing start that would have gone down well at the Olympics. Fiver threw himself sideways; no time for finesse. He hit the boards floor and rolled, coming up onto the balls of his feet and kicking out again. The blow connected, but not with enough force to make a difference.

The sickle claw flashed again, catching Fiver a glancing blow to his left thigh, ripping through the material of his trousers and scoring a long red line in his flesh. Blood welled up instantly. The adrenaline in his system was shielding him from the pain but he knew it wouldn’t last.

A second kick to the door at the back of the stage reverberated through the wooden doors of the stage, but the bolts held it firmly in place. Gazza swore loudly and launched into another strike, his whole body behind the kick. The door didn’t budge.

A fast strike from the advancing creature claimed all of Fiver’s attention. He threw himself sideways, narrowly avoiding a disembowelling blow from the wickedly curved hindclaw. He landed on his side on the stage and rolled, coming up onto his feet and kicking out again. He caught the bird behind the knee joint this time and it stumbled. That was all the opening Fiver needed. He kicked out again, hard, this time taking the creature under the beak and snapping its head back with the power behind the kick.

He swung away, but it recovered faster than he would have believed possible, its yellow beak flashing in the bright lights illuminating the arena. Fiver twisted away, but the pain from his arm and leg were dulling his reactions, slowing him down by crucial seconds. The beak raked his side, ripping his teeshirt. He has no idea if it had ripped flesh or just bruised and there was no respite for him to take stock of his injuries.

“Fuck off, you fucker!” Gazza had abandoned his onslaught on the door and had run forward trying to distract the creature.

“Gazza, no!”

Fiver’s friend was slow, too slow. The bird-thing slashed with one leg, bringing the powerful claw into play. Five launched himself forward, arms outstretched. He managed to knock Gazza off-balance and out of the way of the deadly talon.

Gazza hit the floor hard, but was still able to roll away.

The claw gouged a long furrow across the wooden floor.

The spectators went wild, screaming and yelling. Some for the creature, some on the side of Fiver and Gazza. They were getting their entertainment now and were enjoying every minute of it. Fiver had no idea how much longer he and Gazza could hold out. He drew in a deep breath and jumped for the cage bars above his head, gripping hold with his hands and swinging his legs up. He felt hot pain ripping through his injured arm, but forced himself to work through it, kicking out with his feet at the feathered head. At least like this the blood was running back down his arm to his shoulder and wasn’t fouling his grip. His boots connected and the creature staggered away, shaking its head and squawking in annoyance.

Fiver swung across the bars. He’d been good at this sort of thing on the assault course, but then the worst he’d risked if he’d fallen would have been a broken bone. Here he risked having his throat ripped out or his guts spilled on the planks.

The bird lunged. Fiver drew his legs up and slammed his feet down, directly at its open beak. The blow connected and snapped the birds head back, the beak clacking shut, cutting off its furious cry. At the same moment, Gazza leaped onto its back, clinging on with both arms and legs, doing his best to unbalance it. Fiver kicked out again, getting in another strike as the creature staggered under Gazza’s weight. For a brief moment, it looked like they might stand a chance, and hope flared in Fiver’s chest as he landed lightly on his feet and he launched himself at their opponent, doing his best to drive it into the bars of the cage, trying to deny it room to manoeuvre.

The heavy feathered legs buckled and Gazza let out whoop of triumph. The crowd surged to their feet to get a better view of the mad scramble for supremacy on the caged stage.

Fiver knew they had to stop the sickle claws being brought into play. The beak was bad enough but the claws would be deadly. The creature bucked and scrabbled for purchase on the wood. The feathers were bulky, but underneath, there wasn’t as much mass as Fiver had first feared. The body was heavier than that of an ostrich – not that Fiver had any experience of rugby-tackling ostriches, but he had been to the zoo as a kid and knew what they looked like, and this bugger was certainly bigger.

The creature was doing its best to turn its head and rip Fiver’s face off, but he had it in a stranglehold and was just about managing to keep the wicked beak from getting hold of his flesh. He pulled back hard, his knee jammed down on its neck as Gazza tried to hold it down while staying out of the way of the flailing talons. The roars of the crowd rose above the noise of their struggle, baying for more blood. Fiver heard his own harsh breathing and Gazza’s pants and muffled curses. He yanked the head back and finally got what he wanted, the sharp crack of breaking bone.

The feathered head went limp in his arms and Fiver collapsed across the creature’s corpse, trying to drag air into his labouring lungs.

The crowd went wild.

He pushed himself up, checking quickly to be sure the bird really was dead. It was. He knew dead when he saw it. He held a hand down to Gazza and hauled him to his feet. Gazza cried out in pain and Fiver realised his stomach was covered in blood that had saturated the front of his trousers.

“Gaz, mate, what the fuck happened?” Fiver was still panting from exertion and his words came out in gasps.

“Fucking claw.” Gazza had his hands clamped to his stomach. His eyes were glazed and unfocussed and he was shaking with pain and shock.

Fiver pulled his teeshirt over his head, wadded it up and pressed it against Gazza’s stomach. “Keep pressing on it!”

Gazza’s breath hissed between his teeth. “Fucking hurts, mate!”

“The more it hurts, the better,” Fiver told him, trying to sound more confident that he felt. The blood was already soaking into the material as fast as the colour was draining from Gazza’s face. “Keep pressing!”

Gazza gritted his teeth and did as he’d been told.

Around them the crowd was yelling and stamping, hundreds of feet pounding the beaten earth of the barn floor. They’d wanted blood and they’d got it, but there had been nowhere near enough. From the yells he could hear, it wasn’t hard to work out that some of the audience felt cheated by the way Fiver and Gazza had teamed up. He presumed they’d been meant to work against each other in the hope of improving their own chances of survival. But that wasn’t the way it worked in Fiver’s world. You never left a man behind.

Through the surround-sound of cat-calls and whoops, Fiver caught the rasp of bolts being pulled back on the other side of the door Gazza had tried – and failed - to kick open. Fiver launched himself forward, crossing the makeshift stage, powering through the pain dragging at his mind and body to pivot on his good leg and kick out as hard as he could at the opening door. The wood slammed back, making someone on the other side come out with language that granny wouldn’t approve of – unless granny happened to work as a docker in her spare time.

Fiver through himself back against the internal wall of the barn, a fraction of a second before a pair of taser wires sailed harmlessly past him. He’d more than half expected a bullet to punch through the air, but the fight organisers clearly didn’t want to risk collateral damage amongst their punters. Fiver was under no illusions, though. The people on the other side of the door were armed and dangerous, and if push came to shove it would be a case of sod the punters.

He risked a quick glance over his shoulder to see how Gazza was getting on. The answer was badly. He’s sunk to his knees on the wooden boards, the bloodstained teeshirt clamped to his stomach. He head was bowed and he was shaking badly, but he was alive, and that was what mattered.

Fiver stayed to the side of the door. It was a stand-off and both sides knew it. Fiver risked a bullet if he moved into their line of fire, but whoever was behind the door risked being on the wrong end of his boot if they tried to come through it. He could hear the rough rasp of Gazza’s breath coming in short, painful pants and knew the other man was getting weaker. He was bent almost double now, his head bowed to the stage, hands still pressing the wadded-up teeshirt to the wound in his stomach. If he didn’t get medical attention soon, he’d bleed out and there was fucking nothing Fiver would be able to do about it.

The only thing in Fiver’s favour was that Speight and his hired thugs probably wouldn’t risk a stray bullet hitting the punters, but the wasn’t wholly sure he could count on that. He was weighing up his options when he heard Speight’s voice from behind the door.

“One more round, Fiver lad, just one more round…”

“Fuck off! You never said nothin’ about feathered fucking freaks!”

He heard Speight’s exaggerated sigh. “Yeah, life’s a bitch, ain’t it? OK, if you won’t play nice, one more round or I drill some lead through Gazza’s thick head. How does that sound?”

“He’s dying anyway,” Fiver retorted, doing his best to keep his voice low and calm.

“Then you won’t care if I put a few extra holes in him…”

Fiver heard a slide being racked on the other side of the door. He’d seen enough of Speight to know that the fucker didn’t give a toss about anyone else.

“Wait!” he said, letting urgency bleed into his voice. “Leave Gaz alone!”

“Then get back into the ring and fight one more round.”

One last round, more like.

Fiver ignored the jeering crowd and stared at the door, weighing up his chances.


	7. Chapter 7

The crowd were getting impatient, on their feet now, stamping their feet rhythmically on the floor, demanding action and hoping for blood.

The sharp retort of a pistol shot told Fiver that Speight was serious. A bullet slammed into the rough board and threw up splinters no more than a few inches from of Gazza’s head. One ripped a red furrow across the man’s almost bald head but is spite of the blood that welled up, Gazza seemed oblivious to the pain. He was focussed solely on keeping the bunched teeshirt clamped to his stomach. The stain from the seeping blood had spread a long way across Gazza’s tattooed torso and down his muscular thighs and was pooling by his knees.

“Keep the pressure on, man!” Fiver instructed.

Gazza grunted, and Fiver could see his muscles bunch with the effort, standing out in corded knots around is powerful shoulders and upper arms.

“The next one goes through his right shoulder,” Speight declared in an alarmingly conversational tone. “On the count of three… one…”

“All right…” Fiver knew his attempt to stall had just come to an abrupt halt.

The crowd had started a slow hand-clap and yells of ‘get on with it!’ started echoing around the shed.

Keeping his eyes on the door, Fiver walked slowly back to the middle of the stage. He bent down to rest a hand on Gazza’s shoulder. “Hang on, Gaz, gonna get you out of here…”

Gazza looked up at him, eyes dull with pain. His hand, slick and red with his own blood were still clenching Fiver’s once-grey teeshirt. “Nice try, mate, but you’re talkin’ bollocks. Only way I’m leaving here is feet first.”

Fiver squeezed the tattooed shoulder. “Not dead yet.”

A heartbeat later, he heard a commotion behind the door then the scrabble of long talons on the rough flooring and another of the feathered monsters shot out onto the stage. This one had an even more impressive display of feathers, bright green mixed with purple, topped with a tall reddish-purple crest that lifted in challenge as the bird-thing puffed itself up and let out more of a roar than a squawk. It reminded Fiver of a fancy chicken he’d once seen at a petting zoo only this fucker was a hundred times bigger and could rip his guts out with one stroke from its sickle claws. It was larger than the one lying on the other side of the cage looking somehow diminished in death. Its plumage was brighter and its beak was a more vivid yellow.

The creature titled its head on one side, staring at them. It could smell the coppery tang of blood on the air. It probably hadn’t been fed for days and the prospect of live food was an enticing one.

Gazza looked up at Fiver, his face creased with pain but strangely calm. “’s enough to put you off chicken for life.”

Five took a step forward, putting himself in between Gazza and the bird. There was fuck all he’d be able to do, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. Without warning he jumped and caught hold of the bars of the cage again, swinging his booted feet in an arch towards the bird. The tactic had worked before, and it was the only one he had. It lunged at him, but he was already moving, monkeying away from Gazza, drawing the creature after him. Fiver had practiced this sort of thing relentlessly in the army, spending hours in the gym until he could beat anyone in his squad on the overhead bars and the rings. He’d lost some muscle tone in the months he’d spent on the streets but adrenaline lent him both strength and speed. He shoved all thought of the pain in his arm to the back of his mind and locked it away, the way he’s been taught.

The bird lashed out at him with its beak, but got two booted feet in the face.

By staying off the wooden stage, Fiver was preventing it bringing the sickle claws into play. If it leapt at him like a fighting cock on steroids, it would end up on its feathered arse on the wooden boards. If Fiver could goad it into taking a chance on that sort of strike, he might have the opportunity to get the upper hand. But keeping it away from Gazza was going to be the hard part.

He’d been in some crap situations during his time in the army, but nothing quite compared to this. He’d take the Taliban and ISIS over these fuckers any day. His arm muscles were on fire from the strain, but he kept moving, and drawing up his legs to his chest, before kicking out as hard as he could.

The bird was visibly angry now, feathers puffed up, crest riding high. It struck out again, this time faster than Fiver could retaliate. The hooked beak carved a long furrow down the front of his left leg. He roared with pain. Fuck stoicism. It fucking hurt and he didn’t mind who knew it, even if his yell did have some fucker creaming their pants.

Fiver was running out of steam now. He knew it. The crowd knew it. And, worst of all, the fucking bird knew it. It was playing with him now, like a cat with its prey. He took another strike, this time on his left thigh. He had no idea how deep the wound was, but didn’t even have enough energy left in him to yell in pain. He was beyond that now, operating purely on instinct. Fiver managed to keep the fucker occupied and away from Gazza, but the minute he went down, they were both fucked…

He was sweating like a pig under the lights, and it was getting harder to keep a grip on the bars as sweat slicked his palms. He swung, putting the momentum of his whole body behind the movement. He gripped the top of the cage, but then felt his hands sliding off. He clenched his fingers, trying desperately to keep hold of the bar. But desperation wasn’t enough.

Fiver dropped to the floor, his injured left leg doubled over beneath him. Red hot pain gave way to white hot agony, He scrambled to his feet, but his left ankle wouldn’t bear his weight and he crumpled over again.

The stage door flew open and a figure dressed in black stepped out, holding something that looked like an oversized child’s toy rifle. Without saying a word, the man sighted the weapon on the irate bird that a second ago had been poised to either disembowel him or peck his face off. Neither had been an attractive prospect.

The man squeezed the trigger and a crackle of electricity cut through the yells from the crowd. The bird froze in its tracks as an electric pulse coursed through its body. It crumpled to the stage and lay there twitching.

Once the man was sure the bird wasn’t getting up again, he swung the rifle over his back and went down on one knee next to Fiver. “Christ on a bike, lad, you’ve done well!”

Fiver mustered a grin. It was over. It was fucking over. “Need a medic, boss, fast.” He jerked his head to Gazza. “He won’t last much longer.”

Captain Ryan spoke urgently into his throat mike. “I need Ditz in here now, plus a paramedic team. Full medevac needed. One casualty’s lost a shed-load of blood and there are more holes in our boy than a tramp’s vest.”

The bloodlust of the crowd had evaporated and they were now scrambling for exits, the appearance of a soldier on stage like a bucket of cold water in the face for all of them. Fiver watched the chaos with grim satisfaction. They’d hit the jackpot with this fight. All the high-rollers in one place at once. Fiver just hoped that the ARC team had come with enough back-up to round up all the bastards who’d paid a fortune to see two blokes torn to death.

“We’ve got every copper in Essex here,” Ryan said, correctly interpreting the look on his face. “Plus a load from Suffolk. Every road in the area is blocked and there are dog teams on standby to track any runners. This lot aren’t anywhere any time soon.”

“Did you get Speight?” Fiver asked, as Second Lieutenant Dave Owen burst through the door with a trauma team on his heels.

“The bloke with the gun? Yeah, Finn dropped him with an EMP.”

“On max, I hope.” Fiver acknowledged Ditzy’s questioning look with the words, “I’ll keep. Sort Gazza out.”

“Gazza,” Ditzy’s voice was as calm and reassuring as ever. “My name’s Dave. We’re going to get you stabilised.”

The paramedics started to do their work, getting a line into the injured man and checking him over with the cool determination of every EMT Fiver had ever worked with. Another pair came onto the stage, carrying a lightweight stretcher. Fiver shook his head. He’d walked into that fucking arena and he was damned well going to leave it on his feet.

“He’s stubborn sod,” Ryan said with an apologetic look at the paramedics.

Fiver gripped the hand his captain held down to him and allowed himself to be hauled upright. With his arm over Ryan’s shoulder, he managed to limp across the stage and into the back room that now smelled very musky. Feathers on the floor told Fiver that the raptors had been herded in there before being released onto the stage. On the floor was what looked like a cattle prod that had presumably been used to heard the beasts. Fiver didn’t like the sods, but he was sorry he’d had to kill one. They’d got used to being able to send the creatures back to their own time alive. It seemed like a failure to have to take one down with lethal force.

The farmyard was teeming with activity. Uniformed coppers were busy rounding up the punters and herding them towards a fleet of transport wagons. The cold air felt great after the rank smell of sweat, blood and feverish excitement.

“Give me a minute, boss, please,” he said, his voice low but urgent. He’d just abruptly come down from the biggest adrenaline high of his life and he knew what would happen in the next couple of minutes. He had no fucking intention of breaking down in front of a bunch of paramedics he didn’t know from Adam, even if they had seen it all before.

Ryan helped him over to one of the portacabins and let him lean against it, keeping the weight off his bad ankle.

“Never did like fucking bloodsports,” a cultured voice drawled at Fiver’s side. Captain Joel Stringer, the officer Fiver was meant to have thumped in the elaborate cover story he’d been living for the last six months of his life, gave him a look that combined sympathetic and impressed. “Fucking stellar job.” He looked at Fiver and grinned. “Bet you’re glad that transmitter’s out of your arse.”

“It made coughing sodding tricky,” Fiver acknowledged.

Knowing that Speight would check every single one of Fiver’s meagre belongings, there had only been one place they could conceal the small but powerful transmitter that would lead the cavalry to the rescue. Fiver was just pleased it had worked. He’d been told some people shoved that sort of thing up for fun. They were fucking welcome to it. Butt plugs definitely weren’t his idea of fun, even if it hadn’t been very big.

Stringer laughed and gently squeezed his shoulder. “It’s over,” he said quietly.

Fiver closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the side of the shed. Around him, the farmyard was filled with the sound of coppers yelling at people to shut the fuck up and come quietly. The men and women from the audience were screaming and swearing but that did nothing to stop the relentless snick of metal cuffs. This phase of the operation was fucking huge and they’d really landed the jackpot. Word of an underground fight ring had been doing the rounds in various forces for a couple of years, but no one had been able to get close enough to stand a chance of bringing it down. Two undercover cops in different areas had posed as punters, but before being able to supply any crucial evidence, they’d both disappeared. Then other rumours had started to circulate, that something else was going on, something even nastier that was really pulling in the punters with the big money.

Fiver felt the trembling in his limbs and the throbbing pain from his ankle and the gashes the raptor had left in his flesh. The professor was going to bloody love that big bugger. They’d come across some feathered raptors before, but none as brightly coloured as the one that had been trying to turn him into dinner theatre….

Silent tears started to track through the blood and sweat on Fiver’s face. His chest heaved and he tried to drag air into his lungs as though it would be the last breath he’d ever take and it nearly fucking had been.

Strong arms pulled him into a hug and a familiar voice muttered,” I’ve got you, mate. Just let it all go, then we’ll get the nice medics to patch you up.”

Fiver buried his head in Finn’s shoulder and finally allowed himself to let go of the past six months and the horrors of the cage fight.

He wept and Finn held him. It felt better than anything had felt for a long time.

When he finally allowed the medics to load him onto a stretcher, one of the multitude of sounds still adding to the cacophony in the yard jogged an unpleasant memory. He grabbed Ryan’s hand.

“The pigs, boss. Check the fucking pig pen and get some DNA tests run on their shit. Some of it’s going to be human. Fuck knows what the rest’ll be.”

Then the ambulance doors closed, the engine started up, and whatever the paramedics had squirted into his arm finally started to take effect.


End file.
